


You're Beautiful to Me

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Drabble Challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief mention of past drug use, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, brief mention of dismemberment, resulting in smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:48:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6851623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next morning, John fully expects to find a stroppy detective, so he is not surprised to find a curly-haired burrito hogging the sofa. What is surprising, John notices as he bends to kiss the git's temple, are the layers of clothes he is wearing underneath the cocoon of blankets. Sherlock can hardly be arsed to wear clothes at the best of times, and the mid-August heat is sweltering in the flat. John watches as beads of sweat drip down Sherlock's face. His curls are soaked and stick to his forehead. The sweat is so thick that it takes John several moments to discern the tears. Sherlock, his magnificent man, is crying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shall I Show You What I See?

**Author's Note:**

> #65: "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."
> 
> For @letthechoirsing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Not everything is about you, John!"
> 
> Sherlock's screams cutting John to the core. He jumps to his feet and stalks away from Sherlock, too angry to stay in his vicinity.
> 
> "You're right. How dare I care about you! How dare I try to help! What sort of sick, manipulative bastard does that, hm?"
> 
> John's chest is heaving, and Sherlock's eyes are wide for several long seconds before the façade crumbles completely. Sherlock's chest quivers as he gasps for breath. Tears fall freely from his eyes, and his entire body is shaking. John wants to go to him, but after their words, he is not sure his presence would be welcome. All it takes is a shaky breath and a lost,
> 
> "John?"
> 
> before John is striding quickly back to his side. He drops back into his place next to the sofa and gingerly raises one hand toward Sherlock's face. The detective leans into the touch, closing the last few centimeters between them. Encouraged, John brings his other hand up to cradle Sherlock's precious skull in both hands.

The cab pulls to the curb and Sherlock springs spryly to the ground, leaving John to clamor behind clumsily. Lestrade greets them at the tape, and Sherlock is already a million miles away. John can practically hear his brain whirring.

 John and Lestrade trail Sherlock toward the body, and frankly, John could do without the ongoing comedy hour of Donovan and Anderson.

"Alright," Anderson says, "Hiddleston, Harrington, and Hemsworth."

Sally raises one eyebrow.

"Which Hemsworth?"

Anderson chuckles and shrugs.

"Chris?"

Sally grins.

"Fuck Hiddleston, Marry Harrington, and Kill Hemsworth, obviously. Can't choose an Aussie over a Brit, even in the bedroom."

Sally smirks and Anderson opens his mouth to retort, but, surprisingly, Sherlock beats him to it. 

" _What_ are you doing?"

He asks with disdain and confusion. John, attempting to head off the fight, hurries to explain.

"Fuck-Marry-Kill, Sherlock. It's a game."

Sherlock's face shifts into full-blown disgust.

"Must you?"

He asks wearily.

"Well, as long as we're just sitting around waiting for you to tell us how to do our jobs, we might as well be entertained," Anderson snipes.

Sherlock stalks away, muttering under his breath. John manages to make out, "…wouldn't be bored if you actually _did_ your job." John chuckles and nods in agreement when Sherlock turns to look at him. The detective smiles briefly, then spins back to the body.

John tries his best to ignore the clown show behind him and focuses on the scene. Single body, male, 30 or 40, fairly fit brunette, missing both arms and legs. John's concentration is broken by a loud cackle. As he turns to tell the dynamic duo to shut it, John catches the next Fuck-Marry-Kill pairing.

"Watson, Lestrade, and Holmes," Sally sneers.

"Christ, Sally! I'm not gay!"

Anderson protests.

"I'm well aware. But if you had to choose…" Sally needles.

John's hackles rise as Anderson continues.

"And anyway, you have to give three _viable_ options. No one in their right mind would touch Holmes. It's not even a contest."

"Hey! You gave me an Aussie, Philip! An Aussie!"

Sally argues, but John can barely see beyond his rage. His pulse is thudding in his ears and his hands are steady. He spares a glance for Sherlock, who seems not to have heard. Good, John thinks before his fist is snapping against Anderson's face.

"Don't you _dare_. Apologize now."

John's voice is deadly even. The rest of John's tirade is muffled as Lestrade pulls him off Anderson, who is openly bleeding now. Sherlock turns away from the body and looks at John in annoyance. He conveys the facts to Lestrade rapid-fire, then turns on his heel and leaves. 

John, huffing and cursing, is left to find his own ride home.

* * *

John takes his time climbing the seventeen stairs to their flat. Rage still simmers and his knuckles ache, but John is more hurt by Sherlock's reaction. _Should he not have stuck up for his flatmate? Did Sherlock think he was just causing trouble at a crime scene for no reason?_

As John reaches the top of the stairs, the door flies open and Sherlock barrels out.

"Going to Bart's to verify the toxin, John. Don't wait up!"

The statement is punctuated by the slam of the door. John stares after Sherlock in disbelief.

 

* * *

 The next morning, John fully expects to find a stroppy detective, so he is not surprised to find a curly-haired burrito hogging the sofa. What is surprising, John notices as he bends to kiss the git's temple, are the layers of clothes he is wearing underneath the cocoon of blankets. Sherlock can hardly be arsed to wear clothes at the best of times, and the mid-August heat is sweltering in the flat. John watches as beads of sweat drip down Sherlock's face. His curls are soaked and stick to his forehead.

The sweat is so thick that it takes John several moments to discern the tears. Sherlock, his magnificent man, is crying. John falls to his knees and cups Sherlock's face in his palm. John wants to ask what is wrong, but Sherlock hardly seems capable of speech. Instead, John sets out to reassure the genius with his touch. His fingers are feather-light as they sweep the sodden curls back, and his lips are gentle as he kisses Sherlock's forehead, nose, eyes, ears, jaw, cheeks, every  part of the beautiful man that he can reach. He starts to kiss his way down Sherlock's neck, but the detective stiffens and pulls the blankets up to his chin.

John leans back and looks at Sherlock with concern. The time for silence has passed. Something is seriously wrong. John continues to stroke Sherlock's hair even though the curls have been tamed long ago. Sherlock told him once that he loved this touch the most. Even when he can't bear to be touched anywhere else, the curls are always soothing, safe, undemanding.

"What is it, love?"

John asks softly. The tenderness tears lose a broken sob from Sherlock's throat. He shakes his head back and forth in distress. John stops combing his fingers and just holds Sherlock's head, anchoring him. After several minutes, Sherlock mutters,

"Go away,"

And curls in on himself. John rocks back as if slapped but doesn't move.

"Sherlock?"

He asks quietly.

"What did I do?"

Sherlock has the audacity to growl in frustration. 

"Not everything is about you, John!"

Sherlock's screams cut John to the core. He jumps to his feet and stalks away from Sherlock, too angry to stay in his vicinity.

"You're right. How dare I care about you! How dare I try to help! What sort of sick, manipulative bastard does that, hm?"

John's chest is heaving, and Sherlock's eyes are wide for several long seconds before the façade crumbles completely. Sherlock's chest quivers as he gasps for breath. Tears fall freely from his eyes, and his entire body is shaking. John wants to go to him, but after their words, he is not sure his presence would be welcome. All it takes is a shaky breath and a lost,

"John?"

before John is striding quickly back to his side. He drops back into his place next to the sofa and gingerly raises one hand toward Sherlock's face. The detective leans into the touch, closing the last few centimeters between them. Encouraged, John brings his other hand up to cradle Sherlock's precious skull in both hands.

"It's okay, love. We're okay." 

Sherlock has never been more grateful for John. He doesn't shush Sherlock or ask him to stop. John just holds him, comforts him, and lets him cry.

"You're okay. That's it."

John soothes as Sherlock's tears eventually slow. After a few more hitching breaths, John asks,

"Sherlock, can you tell me what happened? Please?" 

Sherlock huddles down into the blankets, but this time he seems to be gathering himself, not drawing away. John takes this as a good sign and rubs his thumbs softly over Sherlock's cheeks.

"How do you do it, John?" 

He whispers brokenly. John is at a loss, so he waits, hoping Sherlock will elaborate. Sherlock's uncertainty turns worryingly to bitterness.

"I know what I am and what I am not. How can you bare to touch me?"

The question would sound like a challenge if John couldn't see the deep pools of hurt underlying it. He curses Anderson to the deepest depths of hell for ignorantly managing to strike right at the heart of Sherlock's weakness. The man typically exudes so much confidence that most people assume he doesn't have any uncertainties. Which is rubbish, of course. Sherlock just works harder to hide his than most.

They had this discussion back when they first got together, and John is fairly sure that he is the only one to whom Sherlock has ever voice his self-consciousness. John is the trusted keeper of Sherlock's self-esteem and Philip-fucking-Anderson's taunts had sailed right through Sherlock's mask.

Before John, Sherlock was certain he would spend his life alone, which was fine really because he couldn’t afford any distractions from the Work. Or so he told himself. Deep down, he simply believed himself unworthy of another's affections. What could he possibly offer someone? Nothing. He was, at his very core, undesirable. He had made peace with this indisputable fact long ago.  John has worked tirelessly to make sure that Sherlock knows that is not true. That he knows he is loved, deeply and unconditionally.

One stupid round of Fuck-Marry-Kill has flayed open those wounds and John is flailing. If this were a physical injury, a cut or bruise, he would handle it effortlessly. He is a doctor, after all. But this is something deeper, this is Sherlock's heart, and John has never been so out of his depth.

He turns his ultramarine eyes on Sherlock and softens them, his whole face radiating love and sincerity.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Sherlock's answering snort does not convey belief, and John takes it as a challenge.

"Shall I show you what I see, then?"

 


	2. So Now You See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is deeply shaken by the callousness of Anderson. John shows Sherlock how much he loves each and every part of him. (Smutty, smut, smut warning).

John starts at the top of Sherlock's head. He plants a light kiss.

"I love these gorgeous curls. Wild and beautiful, just like you."

He moves down to Sherlock's forehead.

"I think you know how amazing your brain is. I can't imagine a way in which I have not already expressed this idea, but you are amazing, wonderful, fantastic, unbelievable…"

John punctuates each adjective with a kiss.

He drags his lips down Sherlock's aquiline nose.

"I love your distinguished nose. All long, smooth lines. And the way it flares when you're angry is rather adorable." 

He places a conciliatory peck on Sherlock's nose before lipping his way over the man's left eyelid. Then repeats the process with his right.

"Your eyes, Sherlock, are endlessly beautiful. I can never quite decide what color they are. Enigmatic, like you, but God do I love trying."

John suckles lightly at Sherlock's cheekbones.

"These cheekbones are bloody hard to miss. So sharp and tempting. I've lost more minutes than I care to tell just staring at them and wishing I could touch them." 

John licks the curve of Sherlock's ears and uses his teeth to tug on his earlobes.

"You have the most attuned senses of anyone I have ever met. You don't miss a thing, which is why I know you are ignoring me when you pretend not to hear me." 

John teases and gives a particularly sharp bite.

"Doesn't mean I love these any less than any other part of you though."

John kisses along Sherlock's jaw and mouths at his chin. 

"This chin could have a language all to itself, love. You wield it like a weapon, raise it high and dare anyone to disagree with you. Other times, when you're relaxed and laughing, it multiplies. I love that. Very rarely, when you're shy or embarrassed, you dip your chin to your chest and my heart explodes with wanting you."

John whispers the last few words as his lips hover over Sherlock's. He reaches out his tongue to trace the man's tempting upper lip.

"And these. Christ, Sherlock, these lips were meant to be kissed. Can I?"

John asks before pressing in and sealing them together. For several moments, they stay that way, just exchanging air, barely a hint of pressure between them. John presses hard, then draws back. His fingers curl around the edge of the blanket and he looks directly at Sherlock.

"May I?"

He asks. Sherlock nods mutely. John peels the blankets off of him, layer-by-layer, until the only thing between him and Sherlock are his clothes. Sherlock's hands smooth over his still-buttoned suit jacket self-consciously.

John licks behind Sherlock's ear and begins to kiss his way down Sherlock's neck again. He goes slow, letting Sherlock protest if he wants. When the detective doesn't move to stop him. John starts talking again.

"This neck belongs on a Roman statute. Miles and miles of pale skin. I love kissing you here, you make the most delightful noises, and I can never resist tasting each and every freckle. You taste wonderful, like the mint of your body wash and the musk of your sweat, distinctly you. Intoxicating." 

John runs his hands over Sherlock's chest and slides his fingers down to undo the buttons on his jacket. He looks to Sherlock for permission and the man nods. John works the jacket over his shoulders and fingers the small patch of skin that is visible above the collar of his shirt.

"John, please."

Sherlock asks softly, so John sets to work unbuttoning the shirt as well. When he has the first few buttons undone, he cannot resist the siren call of Sherlock's bare skin. He sucks at the juncture where Sherlock's neck meets his collarbone and delights in the choked whimper the detective makes in response. John continues to unbutton Sherlock's shirt as he reverently kisses his way across Sherlock's broad chest.

"Your chest is breathtaking, love. So much restrained power. You may be thin but you can be just as deadly as me when you need to be. Danger and strength. A perfect balance. God, it turns me, love. _You_ turn me on."

John pants heavily over Sherlock's nipple. Finally, he manages to get all of Sherlock's buttons undone and he slips the shirt off of his shoulders. Sherlock is whining and squirming beneath John, needing more than a ghost of air over his sensitive flesh. John, denying him nothing, dives forward.

He swirls his tongue around the pointed nub and increases the soft suction of his mouth. John moans at the heady lust that courses through him as Sherlock's body bows into the sensation. He does the same to the other nipple and breathes raggedly.

"You are so sensitive here. I love licking and sucking your nipples. You are so lovely when I do, arching and flushing beautifully. It drives me insane."

John pulls off and moves back up to lip along each collar bone, over Sherlock's muscular shoulders and down his arms. He stops to pay extra attention to the old track marks that he knows Sherlock hates. As predicted, Sherlock tries to flinch away and cover them, but John holds him steady.

"No, love. Don't hide from me. There is not an inch of you that is not beautiful and these, these are incredibly so. I'm sorry that you were hurting and I'm sorry that you were alone, but they are a part of you. I would no sooner ask you to carve out your own liver than I would ask you to hide these."

John continues down Sherlock's forearms and takes each finger into his mouth. Sherlock's eyes blow wide with arousal at the suckling, nibbling, kissing combination.

"Your fingers are phenomenal. Lithe and graceful as they draw your bow over taut violin strings. They coax incredible music from that instrument. They perform each one of your experiments that I pretend to hate so much. They are indelibly you, love."

John kisses his way back up each arm, across each shoulder, and down Sherlock's chest. He takes his time, kissing each too-prominent rib.

"I thank God everyday for the existence of every single one of these, and the fact that they are whole and unbroken. We've had too many close calls for me not to worship the perfection of your uninjured ribcage. Though you could stand to eat a little more often, couldn't you?"

John looks up at Sherlock adoringly. Sherlock raises one hand to stroke along John's cheek, and his face is a study in wonder.

John returns to plunge his tongue into Sherlock's belly button, which makes the genius shake with laughter.

"And ticklish too! How did I get so lucky?"

John sucks each jutting hipbone that peaks just over the waistband of his trousers. He trails off and moves to sit at the other end of the sofa and places Sherlock's feet in his lap. He touches them gently, experimentally. When Sherlock's eyes slide shut with a satisfied hum, he presses harder and begins to massage the balls of his feet.

"What can I say about your fantastic feet? They may be the most abused part of your body. They carry you over London streets as you pound the pavement chasing down criminals. They careen forward as you kick the kneecaps out from under anyone who dares to threaten me. I adore them."

John places a kiss on the top of each foot. Sherlock blinks his eyes open when John stops massaging and looks down with such vulnerability in his eyes that John's heart breaks. He clears his throat and gestures at Sherlock's trousers.

"Can we take these off too?"

Sherlock deftly undoes the single button and slides the zipper down. He wraps his hands around John's and together, they pull the trousers off. John gives Sherlock's hands a reassuring squeeze before he moves back down toward Sherlock's feet. He runs his fingers over Sherlock's shins and cups each knee in his hands. He rubs soothingly over Sherlock's legs, continuing the gentle massage.

"Your legs are so sensual. I'm not sure you're even aware. Bloody Christ, Sherlock. They're so long and lean. I love the feel of them wrapped around my waist. I love them even more spread open and trusting with my head between them."

John punctuates the statement with small kisses along Sherlock's inner thighs. He looks into Sherlock's eyes as he mouths one of Sherlock's balls through his pants. Sherlock's face twists with pleasure and his chest rises rapidly. 

"John,"

He breathes, unsure of whether it’s a command or a question. John lavishes equal attention on his other ball and caresses Sherlock's sides. He kisses his way up Sherlock's clothed shaft and lips along the waistband of his pants. Before he can ask, Sherlock is sliding off the pants and chucking them across the room. John chuckles.

"Impatient are we?"

John doesn't tease. There will be plenty of teasing later, but now is about honesty and John thinks he may actually have a heart attack if he does not taste Sherlock right this minute. He mouths hungrily along the creases of Sherlock's thighs and swipes his tongue directly over his tense perineum, eliciting a volcanic groan and an aborted thrust of his hips. John slides his hands down to gently hold his hips steady as he draws Sherlock's twitching cock into the damp heat of his mouth. The time for words is over as John attempts to silently convey his awe and reverence for these parts of Sherlock's body. He relaxes his throat and lets Sherlock thrust into him. With his hands now free, John slides them underneath Sherlock and traces down his spine to circle teasingly around his hole.

Sherlock moans and his hips stutter, as if unsure of which way to move. John chuckles around Sherlock and slips the tip of one finger into him. Sherlock's abdomen quakes with the effort of holding back, not just pounding blindly into John's mouth as John works his finger deeper into Sherlock's arse. The tugging friction of John's finger is heavenly across Sherlock's rim. John abruptly removes the digit and Sherlock whines at the loss. John sucks consolingly as he pops the lid on the lube. When his finger returns, the slick slide increases Sherlock's pleasure exponentially. A second finger joins the first and John crooks them, unerringly finding Sherlock's prostate. The detective keens and his hands flutter helplessly to John's head, silently encouraging. John thrusts rhythmically into Sherlock, making sure to hit his prostate, as he hollows his cheeks and sucks hard. Sherlock tightens his grip in warning, but John just continues thrusting and sucking until he tastes the first salty streams against his tongue. Sherlock's entire body goes slack and John strokes him through his climax before slipping his fingers carefully out of his arse. He gives one last lick to Sherlock's cock, making sure to catch every last drop of come, before he lets the flaccid, spent member rest gently against Sherlock's thigh.

He reaches up to caress Sherlock's face and kiss him softly. 

"John."

Sherlock says in a voice full of love, gratitude, and still a little disbelief.

"So now you see."

John says before capturing Sherlock's lips again. They stay molded together on the sofa for several more hours with John whispering affirmations into Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock slowly starting to believe.


End file.
